


Like a Moth to Light

by earthseraph



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Too Weak For That, Love Confessions, M/M, Nobody Dies, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-17 18:57:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5881933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earthseraph/pseuds/earthseraph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>It’s ironic,</em> He thinks, letting a laugh bubble from his lips, a moan from the pain following, <em>I’m going to die in the snow again. Maybe I’ll freeze again soon.</em></p><p>He can hear someone screaming his name, the sound of boots running through the slush of snow. But that doesn’t matter, no. He did his job. He protected Bucky, protected what he cares for most. So he lets his eyes stay shut, lets his blood coated hand fall onto the snow sprinkled grass, and settles in. </p><p>Death was always a friend of his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like a Moth to Light

**Author's Note:**

> This is for my AMAZING friend [Kat](http://worthystevie.tumblr.com/) go follow them bc like their poetry is the best and they're super nice and yeah.
> 
> Prompt: otp fights and it results with one of them yelling “because I love you!”
> 
> There was supposed to me more yelling in this. I apologize for me being a total sap.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Unbeta'd, all mistakes are my own.

**Now**

_It’s snowing,_ Steve thinks, faintly, bringing a hand up to touch the flake that landed on his cheek. 

_It’s snowing,_ He closes his eyes and lets his hand fall onto the grass beneath him, snow peppering his face. 

_Snow._ Blood flows slowly from the bullet wound in his side, slipping through the weak hand he has pressed against it, his body is warm even as frozen drops of water continue to fall on him. 

_It’s ironic,_ He thinks, letting a laugh bubble from his lips, a moan from the pain following, _I’m going to die in the snow again. Maybe I’ll freeze again soon._

He can hear someone screaming his name, the sound of boots running through the slush of snow. But that doesn’t matter, no. He did his job. He protected Bucky, protected what he cares for most. So he lets his eyes stay shut, lets his blood coated hand fall onto the snow sprinkled grass, and settles in. 

Death was always a friend of his.

Like a moth to light.

* * *

* * *

**1939**

“You gotta’ stop doing this, Stevie,” Bucky says, dabbing a damp corner of the towel he’s holding against the cut on Steve’s cheek, “gonna’ get yourself hurt real bad one day.”

Steve doesn’t flinch at the sting of water to the cut, he doesn’t move away from Bucky, instead just stares at Bucky’s neck, “I know,” he says softly, because he does, he knows one day he might not come back from a stupid fight, but he doesn’t know how to stop. He doesn’t know how to keep his head down, chin tucked in, and stay away from the bullies that seem to call to him like a moth to their stupid light. 

Bucky pulls the towel away and looks down at him, “Do you?”

There’s fire in his eyes, a frown on his lips, and Steve wants to move away from the fire behind the grey, but he’s never backed down from a fight. Not even one with Bucky. So he makes himself taller, moves a step away from the sink that’s digging into his back and stares Bucky down, fire be damned, “I think the person getting hurt would know, Buck.”

Just because he keeps getting into fights. Just because he’s a moth and the bullies are a stupid light doesn’t mean he’s immune to feeling the pain that comes along with the punches. He feels it, every bone to his cheek, every boot toe to his stomach, he feels it when he moves the next day, and feels it when Bucky looks at him with saddened eyes. So, he knows. He does. But he’s a moth, and moths don’t know when to not go to the light.

Bucky sighs and tosses the towel into the sink, he looks ten years older with bags under his eyes and a frown on his lips, fire gone, replaced with something cold and sad, “I know you know,” he says, eyes dropping to the floor, “I just worry, ya’ know?”

Steve nods, he wants to reach out, touch Bucky’s face and comfort him, take the cold-sadness away from his eyes and replace it with light, but he can’t, so he doesn’t, “I know, Buck, I’ll try to stop. Maybe lessen the fighting quota?” He jokes, wanting that light back in Bucky’s eyes, craving it.

“What,” Bucky says, looking up, a quirk to his lips, something in his eyes like a dim light, “go down from four alley fights to one or two?”

Steve shrugs a shoulder, “Lessening my quota, ain’t it?”

Bucky chuckles and nods grabbing the towel from the sink, “Sure is,” he raises the towel to Steve’s cheek, “now hold still.”

Steve lets Bucky go back to cleaning his wounds. Pressing the towel lightly to the bloodied cuts, focusing on them with deep concentration and focus like it’s the most important thing in the world. Steve will try to lower his quota. He’ll try to keep his head down and only fight when it’s absolutely necessary. Because fighting hurts Bucky as much as it hurts him. Fighting makes Bucky worry and stress and takes the light away from his eyes. If Steve can put the light back in them by not fighting, then he will, he _will_.

Because he’s a moth and he’ll always be attracted to Bucky’s light.

* * *

* * *

**1942**

“Today was a good day,” Bucky says from his cot on the other side of the tent.

Steve rolls over in his own, it’s too dark to see Bucky but he can imagine him: laying on his back, arms behind his head, looking at the canvas roof like he can see the stars through them. Steve’s watched Bucky enough through the night to know, “Sure was.”

“No rain or snow stopped us,” Bucky notes, like he’s ticking the good things about today off his fingers.

“True,” Steve says, still looking over at the dark spot in the tent where Bucky lays.

“We each go ourselves a piece of chocolate,” Bucky says, the smile pushing through his words.

Steve hums, he can still taste the chocolate in between his teeth, he wishes he had more of the rich treat, “It was like a gift from god.”

The tent stays silent, moments pass where all Steve can hear is the sound of bugs chirping in the night and some of the guy still around the fire. He thinks Bucky fell asleep, that the good things he ticked off his fingers were enough to push the Zola ridden nightmares aside and let him dream of sunny days filled with chocolate back home in Brooklyn- and isn’t that sad? Some sun, a piece of nickel chocolate, and their run down but still standing apartment could make the brightest days here seem dim and dreary. Steve’s about to roll over, himself, and stare at the canvas ceiling, counting Bucky’s breaths to help him fall asleep when Bucky speaks.

“You didn’t get hurt,” his voice is hushed in the night, another tick off his fingers of good things, like he’s telling Steve his biggest secret, but his protective streak is no secret. Not to the Commandos, and definitely not to him. 

“I didn’t,” Steve replies, just as quiet, just as hushed while someone outside their tent lets out a huge laugh. Today he didn’t get a nick on himself. He didn’t scrape a knee while ducking under the shield, he didn’t get a bruise from throwing or receiving a punch, no bullets have entered and exited his body, nothing. And if that goes on Bucky’s mental list of what exactly a good day is, then Steve’s going to try harder to stay as pristine as the day before.

He’s still going to break down HYDRA base doors and go in with the rest of the Commandos guns blazing, but he’s not going to throw himself in front of a bullet unnecessarily. He’s not going to leave his shield in a wall like a thrown dart but instead pull it out and use it for it’s intended purpose. He’s not going to forget to fill the little pistol he keeps in his hip with bullets and he’s not going to leave his helmet at base because it might be a tad too tight on his head. He’s going to do anything and everything he can to keep something on Bucky’s Good Day List alive. And if he gets hurt one day, he’s just going to have to pray for rain and trade a watch post for someone’s chocolate to slip into Bucky’s pack. 

“Goodnight, Stevie,” Bucky says, hushed like before, and Steve can hear him rolling over in the cot, probably on his side, leaving space for Steve to fill like he used to when they shared a bed in Brooklyn. 

Steve does the same for Bucky. 

“‘night, Buck.”

Steve stares over at the darkness that is Bucky’s side of the tent. There may not be any moon or starlight shining through, the kerosene lamp may not be on to light up the dark tent, but he doesn’t need that. Not when Bucky’s here, not when Bucky’s slowly coming back to the guy he was before the war and torture, not when Bucky’s had a good day. Steve doesn’t need light because Bucky’s here with him, and that’s all that matters.

* * *

* * *

**Now**

Steve keeps his eyes closed when he comes to. He can hear the all too familiar beeping of hospital machines, he can smell the bleach cleaned sheet, and feels them rough beneath his resting hands. He can feel needles sticking into his arms, the cannula up his nose, and- along with the bed sheets- a metal hand clutching his.

He knows what he did to end up here. Took a bullet for Bucky because while Bucky was watching his six, nobody was watching Bucky’s. Nobody but Steve that is.

He honestly thought that was the end of it. A bullet to his side, blood flowing out of the wound too quickly, an action filled mission with teammates that were too caught up in their own battle they wouldn’t notice him wounded on the ground. But someone noticed, someone kept pressure on his wound, made sure he was taken to the med unit and worked on- kept him alive. 

Someone noticed, and that someone had to be the person whose hand is entwined with his, because they watch each other’s sixes. Bucky watches his, he watches Bucky’s, rinse then repeat. It’s like an infinite loop of protection. It’s what saved his ass through most of his life and got Bucky “killed”. It’s what he thought got himself killed, and it’s something that he would gladly die for.

Steve didn’t die, though, he’s here, and he doesn’t regret almost dying for Bucky.

He opens his eyes. 

Bucky has his head down on Steve’s bed. His flesh arm like a cradle for his head, hair flowing over his arm, and his metal one holding on to Steve’s hand. He doesn’t notice the few moments Steve takes with his eyes open. He mentally catalogs where he’s at (Stark med bay), what’s wrong with him (bullet wound, partially healed, minor scrapes to his person), and what- if anything- is wrong with Bucky (no visible wounds, scrapes to his human arm, obvious fatigue and emotional drainage).

“Buck,” Steve says, his voice his hoarse from disuse and the computer screen across from his bed tells him he’s been out for a little over a day.

Bucky’s head snaps up at the sound of Steve’s voice. There’s bags and dark circles under his eyes, his actual eyes are red rimmed, and there’s indent lines on his face where he’s been laying here for who know how long. He looks tired, upset, and Steve understand why he looks this way, what Steve did to make him look this way, but he wishes he could change it. He wishes sunshine and chocolate were enough to change it.

“Steve,” Bucky exhales, his eyes take in Steve’s face, doing his own mental catalogs before his face changes from grateful happiness to rage, “Steve, you fucking idiot!”

Steve doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t close his eyes and pretend he’s tired, he just tightens his grip on Bucky’s hand and prepares for the onslaught of Bucky’s rage, “Buck-” he tries to get a word or two of his own in when Bucky raises his voice and speaks over him.

“You took a bullet directed at _me_ , you could have died!” His eyes are fire, his lips are in a firm line, but his hand stays soft in Steve’s clutch.

“You could have too,” Steve says, holding his ground, no matter how much fire rages in Bucky’s eyes he won’t back down.

Bucky narrows his eyes, “Stop taking bullets for me, stop almost dying for me.”

“Then you stop watching my six, fair’s fair.” His side hurts and his heads’ throbbing, but he won’t let Bucky win this argument. He won’t let Bucky believe that his life his worth any less than Steve’s own. If Steve has to stop taking bullets for Bucky, then Bucky has to stop doing the same for him in the field. Risking his life- just as much as Steve is for him- in the field. 

“I’ll never stop watching your six,” Bucky shakes his head, hair moving with it, “and you can’t make me.”

“Then I won’t stop taking bullets for you.” Steve says, he holds on to Bucky’s hand a fraction tighter, “You almost died in the alps watching my six, you were tortured and held captive for decades because you watched my six on that train, if I can’t watch yours- if I can’t have that _right_ \- then you can’t watch mine.”

“So what,” Bucky says, his mouth thin, his eyes no longer ignited with fire but cooled over like a hot coal dropped into water, “this- you almost dying- is some debt,” he spits out the word, “you have to me? Something you owe me?” 

“No,” Steve shakes his head, pleads with his voice and eyes, “nothing like that, Buck, I swear.” Bucky has to know that this isn’t something Steve owes him, that Bucky’s own death for Steve isn’t something Steve sees needed to be repaid. Avenged, yes. Making the right people pay, yes. But not a debt, or something he owes on like a pawn, never that.

“Then what is this, Steve, huh? What kind of thing makes you try to take bullets for me? What makes you do stupid things and get hurt in the process for me? Huh, Steve?” His voice raises with each question, the fire completely gone and replaced with cold coal, the hand in Steve’s tense- and not just from it being metal.

Steve wants to lie, say it’s his duty as Bucky’s best friend, but he can’t, and he won’t. Not to someone who knows all his tells and knows him better than anyone on this planet, so he doesn’t. He looks farther into Bucky’s eyes for that light he loves and craves and knows so well, and says with his heart in his mouth and every memory of Bucky- happy or otherwise- in his mind, “Because I love you.”

Bucky’s mouth opens and closes a few times, his eyes are wide with surprise, but his hand is still in Steve’s and Steve isn’t letting go, “What?”

Steve doesn’t look away even though he wants to cower under his blankets because there’s always that _what if_ in the back of his head. What if Bucky doesn’t love him? What if Bucky leaves him forever because he can’t love Steve? What if he isn’t good enough for Bucky? What if what if what if. He swallows back a lump in his throat that’s probably his heart and holds on to Bucky a fraction tighter, “I love you.”

“You do?” There’s hope in his voice, a type of light in his eyes that Steve’s never seen before.

Steve nods, takes a chance and rubs his thumb against the smooth metal plates of Bucky’s hand, “How could I not, Buck? You’re my everything.” Bucky’s been his everything since as long as he can remember. He’s been his everything in both life, almost-death, and that space in between. He’s loved him for longer than he can remember, and honestly, he doesn’t even know when he started to love Bucky. It just happened. There wasn’t a big Moment like in movies, it was more like slipping into a good pair of shoes, like breathing in fresh air. Simple. Easy.

“I-” Bucky lips his lips and swallows, eyes flicking from Steve’s, to some point, then back. The light in his eyes is like the sun on warm spring days, full blown and stunning, there’s a small smile on his lips that isn’t like something Steve remembers seeing before, “I love you, too, Stevie, always have and always will.”

And Steve could cry, he really could. He’s loved Bucky for so long, for decades, through war and changing generations. He’s loved Bucky even when he was proclaimed dead, he’s loved Bucky and Bucky’s loved him. He could cry, “Buck,” Steve says, broken, but there’s a smile on his lips and like the moon reflecting from the sun, there’s light in his eyes.

Bucky brings the hand twined with his metal one up to his lips and kisses the skin, delicate, like he’s fine china that could break, “Stevie, I love you, which is why I don’t want you to die for me.”

“I don’t want you to die for me either, Buck,” Steve says with a shake of his head, “if you’re not here I don’t know who I am,” he breaks eye contact for the first time before flicking them back, “how can I be whole if you’re my other half?”

Bucky leans into the bed, into Steve, “I could say the same.”

“So what- we don’t take bullets for each other and hope for the best?” Steve knows he won’t follow that, he knows he can’t promise to do that, not ever.

“I don’t know,” Bucky says with a sigh, he gets up from his chair and for a moment Steve thinks he’s going to leave, but he just kicks his boots off and crawls up on the bed with Steve, taking up the vacant place next to him. They let go of hands, Bucky opts for resting his head on Steve’s chest, Steve opts for wrapping his arm without an IV around Bucky. 

Both of them are silent. The heart monitor beeps in the silence, Steve strokes Bucky’s shoulder, and Bucky draws circles in his hospital gown, being careful with his wound. 

“How about we cross that bridge when we get there, but promise to be more careful?” Steve says quietly, fingers now in Bucky’s hair.

“I promise,” Bucky says like a vow, “anything to keep you safe and happy.”

“I promise, too, love you Buck, more than anything.” And he does- promise. He won’t take unnecessary risks, he won’t jump out of a plane without a parachute, he won’t jump in front of bullets without his shield raised and ready. He won’t. He loves Bucky too much to both lose him and leave him if death were to take him. 

Bucky nods and presses a to his clothed sternum, “It’s to the end of the line, remember, and my line ain’t up, so neither is yours.”

“And it won’t be up for a long time, so you better be in this for the long haul.”

Bucky props his chin up on Steve’s chest, “I’ve dealt with your ass for long enough now, so trust me, I’m in it for the long haul.”

Steve grins, resting his hand on Bucky’s neck, “The long haul, it is.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked the fic please reblog [This Post](http://pesmenos.tumblr.com/post/138553806510/like-a-moth-to-light-by-earthseraph-pesmenos-for)
> 
>  
> 
> [My Tumblr.](http://pesmenos.tumblr.com/)


End file.
